Career Change
by Rainne
Summary: Oneshot about what might have possibly driven such a brilliant bird as Jeeves to begin his life as a valet. Remixed version added.
1. Version 1

Disclaimer: Reginald Jeeves belongs to P.G. Wodehouse, has since 1915.

Kobarid, Austro-Italian border, November 18, 1917  
"Well, Jeeves," Mr. Thistleton ground out as he paced before the seated man, "That was a hair's breadth from a complete disaster."

"Indeed, sir," the man replied, watching his employer with a bland eye. His German officer's uniform was spotless, a feat that never ceased to astound and mystify Mr. Thistleton.

"It was a good job you did- giving the Italians time enough to get themselves back together and form that defensive line at the Paive saved us all in the end. Poor sods. More than half of their numbers peasant-folk, never lifted a weapon in their lives. How'd you do that, by the way?"

"Do what, sir?"

"Stall the Austrians. Must have been a spot of genius, that."

"Thank you, sir. As you are aware, there were several German storm trooper factions sent to reinforce the Austro-Hungarian ranks. The latter was rather in awe of the former, a fact that I used to my advantage while in pursuit of the Allied forces, sir, by disguising myself as one of the German officers and suggesting a route that was far more arduous than that which was previously chosen. I relied on the Italian army's superior knowledge of the landscape to allow them to reach a safer distance before meeting our enemy in battle again."

Jeeves delivered this speech with all the personal pride and pleasure of a report on the current forecast. Thistleton felt compelled to get excited for the both of them, "By Jove, that's bloody brilliant, Reginald! Another spot on victory for the Shadow Man!"

Jeeves's gaze drifted to his lap, "I am gratified by your praise, and always endeavor to give satisfaction, but I would prefer to remain as anonymous as possible, in favor of a spectacular moniker."

"I'll bet you do," Thistleton replied solemnly, eyeing Jeeves, "As would I, had I a record like yours. How long do you reckon it's been now?"

"It has been six years since I began performing... this service."

Thistleton allowed himself a grim chuckle, "'This service' he calls it. A dirty little job is what it is, Jeeves, and no mistake, but someone must do it. Otherwise..." Both Thistleton and Jeeves gazed into the middle distance, feeling the heavy weight of duty settle a little more onto their shoulders.

"Mr. Thistleton," Jeeves eventually intoned, "I believe my latest success may have been less 'spot on' than you have described."

Thistleton emitted a small sigh, "I know, Jeeves, I know. Cadorna's fellows weren't the only ones that barely made it out with their lives. You were found out just after the battle's end. You've got the Lord to thank for them not catching on to you until you'd nipped off, my lad." Jeeves gave a sober nod. "But, in any case, the terrestrial powers that be have decided to take you out of the action. It's all well and good for our boys to know you're on their side, as long as they keep quiet about it, but not so for the opposition."

Jeeves bore the news without a hint of emotion, as usual, "Where am I to be placed, sir?"

Thistleton fixed a steady stare on Jeeves, waiting a moment before saying, "You're to be my valet."

Jeeves's eyebrow rose an eighth of an inch in puzzlement, "But, sir, I have performed a valet's duties for you between my missions from the first. I'm afraid I fail to see how this will remove me from the action, as you say."

"Yes, that's right, but for real now. No more missions, just valeting. And after a few weeks, you shall be transferred to another gentlemen, and then another, until you're soundly tucked in among the idle rich of England. How's that sound?"

Jeeves was silent for some time before meeting Thistleton's stare with his own cool, dark one, "I believe my opinion is immaterial, sir. If my superiors feel this course of action is the one that must be implemented, I will follow it. As Simonides had it in Plato's Dialogues, not even the gods fight against necessity."

Thistleton's gaze fell to the floor as he chuckled quietly again, "I'll miss you, Reginald, when you're gone."

"And I you, sir." The only smile Thistleton ever received from Jeeves arrived and departed on the younger man's face in a matter of moments.

"All right, enough of this soppiness," Thistleton made a show of straightening his jacket and posture. Jeeves stood up from the chair and Thistleton took a hold of his arm, leading him out of his makeshift office in Korbarid's lone Allied military base. As soon as the pair exited, Jeeves spotted a well-dressed elderly man seated on the wooden bench in the hallway. He wondered momentarily how he hadn't noticed the man arrive, due to the bench's tendency to deliver an agonized squeak at the slightest pressure. The man unfolded himself from his seat and stood before Thistleton and Jeeves. Although shorter than both men, he still somehow managed to look down his nose at them.

"Now I know you can't fix a plate of eggs and bacon fit to feed a starving mongrel, my lad, but after a little time with this fellow, you will. Reginald Jeeves, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Wilmot Harpsamont, come all the way from the Junior Ganymede Club- that's a valet and butler agency in London. He's going to show you every trick to valeting that time will allow. Mr. Harpsamont, this is Reginald Jeeves, our finest operative."

Harpsamont's small, sharp eyes dissected Jeeves for a moment. "Good day, young sir," he stated in a voice that sounded much like the old bench's abused wood in a gale.

"Good day, Mr. Harpsamont," Jeeves replied with a courtly nod.

Harpsamont made a quiet "humph" sound before saying, "Come along, then. We've a great deal of work to do and, according to Mr. Thistleton, little time to do it." He turned away after a quick bow to Thistleton and started walking down the hall. Jeeves nearly had to jog to catch up, leaving his former employer to wander back into his office. By that time, Harpsamont was speaking again, "You can't just become a valet overnight, I'll have you know. And it is more than obvious that you've had no prior training. Oh, yes," he spoke over Jeeves's half-started correction, "You've laid out clothes for our Mr. Thistleton, but that most certainly does not make you a valet. No, indeed."

"I was also employed as a page-boy at a girls' school when I was eleven, sir."

Harpsamont stopped and looked at Jeeves. His thin-lipped mouth twisted into something Jeeves had to squint to recognize as a smile. Then the man started laughing; wheezy little laughs like the sneezes of an elderly lap dog. "Page-boy?" he managed in between his acidic chortles, "Page-boy at a girls' school? Young sir, if you are entertaining any ideas that the duties of 'page-boy at a girls' school' are at all similar to those of a valet, I might as well direct you straight back to Mr. Thistleton and stop wasting my time." His laughter had ceased, but his eyes still glittered with scornful amusement.

Jeeves very suddenly found himself thinking fondly on the sleek German pistol he had left in Thistleton's office. He coughed very gently into his hand. "Where shall we begin my lessons, sir?" he asked.

"In the kitchen," Harpsamont answered, "If you can't cook, you must learn. I have brought along with me a man who will teach you, a Monsieur Anatole. He is quite good." Jeeves and Harpsamont pushed open the double doors leading to mess hall and began their first lesson.


	2. Remix

A/N: Okay, this is- well, I call it a remix of the first version. I got the idea not long after finishing the first. It's basically the same scene, but with a small change. See if you notice it.

Disclaimer: Reginald Jeeves belongs to P.G. Wodehouse, has since 1915.

Kobarid, Austro-Italian border, November 18, 1917

"Hail the conquering hero of Kobarid!" bellowed the young officer as he slammed open the door to Mr. Thistleton's office.

"The Shadow Man pulls it out of the fire again, eh, Reggie my lad?" Thistleton replied, leaning back against his desk. His eyes gleamed with paternal pride as he took in Reggie's beaming, dirt-covered face.

"I'll bet our lads are already passing the story around," Reggie said, dropping into a chair before Thistleton's desk, "And why wouldn't they? I can hardly wait to share it myself- with a few of the lovely ladies in Florence when we get back." He waggled his eyebrows at his employer.

"Time enough for that, why don't you test it out on me, eh? Got a report to complete, don't you know?" Reggie mimed confusion, to Thistleton's amusement. "Aw, who'm I talking to?" he affectionately griped, "Reginald Jeeves wouldn't know a sedentary activity like paperwork if it gnawed off his foot!"

"Thistle, I risk life and limb practically every day- have done for six years now. What more do they want?"

"Absolutely right, my lad. Now, about the latest. Let's have the details."

Reggie let out a self-satisfied sigh, "Stroke of genius, sir, if I do say so myself-"

"Never stopped you before," Thistleton interrupted with a mischevious glint in his eye.

"Good thing it's always true then, eh?" Reggie shot back, "Anyway, I slipped into the Austro ranks with the German stormtroopers. Heh, you should've seen their faces when we showed up- like to lick our boots if we asked, I swear. A few words in the right ears sent them off into the hills, rather than the way they were going. Gave Cadorna's blokes time to build their defenses again at the Paive." Reggie had sobered as the report progressed, now he gazed darkly into the office, "Most of those poor Italian sods had never lifted a weapon in their lives, you know. Just peasant-folk, hardly a soldier among them. I'm amazed any of them made it out alive."

Thistleton clapped a hand on Reggie's shoulder, and the two shared a moment under the heavy weight of war. "_You_ almost didn't make it out alive, my lad," he murmured solemnly. Reggie's gaze darted back to him, "Germans caught on to you when you weren't five miles away, and you've the Lord to thank that you got that far. I'm afraid the Shadow Man's been compromised, Reggie."

"What'll we do about it, sir?" he asked, suddenly seeming like a scared young boy to Thistleton.

"You'll go undercover again, but permanent this time. You'll be valeting for me, like usual, only no more missions in between, you see?"

Reggie's face crumpled in disappointment, "You serious, Thistle? I can't stand valeting! All that bowing and scraping, iron the clothes, fix the meals, up at dawn every day while Lord Ponce sleeps til noon- it's bloody irritating! And worse, it's _boring_."

Thistleton heaved a sad sigh, "Believe me, Reggie, none of us want to see you go. We also don't want to see you killed or captured by the enemy. Command wants you out of danger and this is the best solution they've got."

"For good?"

Thistleton nodded, "For now, yes."

"Well, at least I'll be your valet. You won't kick up a fuss if I don't pick out just the right bowtie for your evening dress, right?" A ghost of his former smile returned, unfortunately Thistleton couldn't return it.

"That will be true, for a time."

"What do you mean, Thistle?"

"Well I'm hardly out of the action, am I, Reggie? You'll valet for me for two, maybe three weeks, and then you're to be shipped off to another bloke. Then another after that, and another, until you're safely concealed among the idle rich of England. So it is written, so it shall be done, I'm afraid. There's nothing for it."

Reggie let out a melancholy groan, bracing his elbows on his knees and dragging his hands through his hair. When he looked up again, his face was a chiselled mask, "That's what'll keep me out of enemy hands then, sir?" Thistleton nodded. "Right, so be it. Only a bloody idiot fights against what's necessary. I'll miss this, though, an awful lot. Best six years of my life."

"You'll be missed, Reggie." Thistleton stood and led the younger man out of his office with a hand on his back. Upon entering the hallway, Thistleton suddenly found himself thrust behind Reggie, who had drawn his sleek German pistol on a man standing before them. The man, a well-dressed, elderly specimen, looked utterly unimpressed by the barrel he was staring down.

"Identify yourself, sir," Reggie demanded.

"Reggie, for pity's sake, settle down," Thistleton said, "This is Wilmot Harpsamont from the Junior Ganymede Club in London. He's here to teach you about valeting, proper valeting. Mr. Harpsamont, this is Reginald Jeeves, our finest operative."

Reggie reholstered his weapon with smile that should have been a lot more sheepish than it was. "Sorry, sir," he said, "War tends to make a man jumpy, you understand."

Despite being several inches shorter than Reggie, Harpsamont somehow managed to look down his nose at him, "We'll soon deal with that."

With that cryptic response, Harpsamont turned on his heel and began striding down the hall. Reggie's eyes darted uncertainly from the valet to Thistleton. "Go on, then," Thistleton said, gesturing in Harpsamont's direction.

Reggie grinned, "Wish me luck, sir."

"Good luck, Reg-"

"Jeeves!" Harpsamont's voice rang out from the end of the hallway, "Are you here to learn the skills necessary to convince others that you are a valet or are you here to waste my time?"

Reggie shrugged at Thistleton and jogged down the hall to join Harpsamont. "You can call me Reggie, sir, everyone-"

"Jeeves, you will soon learn that as a valet what you are called is completely immaterial. Mr. Thistleton has informed me that you cannot cook. If this is the case, then culinary technique will be your first lesson. In the mess hall you will find your teacher, a Monsieur Anatole. He is quite good. Do you understand?"

"Indeed, sir."


End file.
